


May 18th

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Sad John, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 04:26:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10734093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: John knew what day it was, but it was the shopping list that was his undoing.





	May 18th

It came over him as he made the shopping list. _Better buy that pasta she likes_ , he thought, then remembered it no longer mattered. He was buying groceries for the Baker Street flat, not the home he’d shared with Mary. He could buy any kind of pasta he liked. Pausing, John realised he had no idea what kind of pasta he liked. He’d bought penne, Mary’s preference, for so long that he had forgotten what kind he actually preferred. As he considered this, the sense of loss hit him profoundly. Not so much the loss of her, specifically, but the loss of someone to think of while he made the grocery list. Closely on the heels of that was the odd sensation that he didn’t know himself anymore, either. Where had he gone? Who didn’t know what kind of pasta they liked? _Someone who has put another person ahead of themselves for a long time_ , he thought to himself as the tears dripped from his jaw, splashing inky circles on his list. John blinked, the image blurry through tears. It was ridiculous, he thought, that something so small was the breaking point. He’d been aware for several days that today was more important that just grocery day. Today was the eighteenth. His wedding anniversary. A day that had been so important only six weeks ago, before Mary had decided to leave him, ripping apart the importance of the day forever. Now, it was just another day, with no more significance than yesterday or tomorrow. His melancholia had persisted all morning, muting his hours, but it had taken this small moment for the vague hurt to coalesce into sharp pain, unavoidably reminding him that all aspects of his life had been affected by Mary’s departure.

He was still sitting at the kitchen table, blinking blindly as the tears continued to fall. The shopping list didn’t matter anymore. John was just trying to ride out the waves of grief that were relentlessly breaking over him. Just as he thought they would subside, a stray thought – _no more nail polish spattered on the bathroom sink_ – would send him back under. It was less the significance of the thought and more the fact that every thought he had, every memory of them, every little ritual was now either moot or changed forever. He didn’t need to put the kettle on in the morning anymore – he had tea at work, and she wasn’t there to make herself a coffee. His socks could sit on the bedroom floor all week, nobody was there to be irritated by it. John could chose the flavour of ice-cream without good natured ribbing, which always served its purpose to make him feel a little guilty and selfish without appearing to be intended that way. Each of these new things triggered tears and hopelessness, and John had no idea how long he had sat there, wrapped in his own misery, when a hand pressed into his back. He turned blindly, face swollen with crying to lean against the body turned towards him. Long arms wound around his back, bringing him into the warm mass. It smelled of tea and clean shirts and something faintly chemical hiding beneath expensive aftershave. Sherlock. John relaxed into the hug, not caring that his nose was running, tears certainly staining the shirt into which his face was pressed. His hands, which had been pressed to his face as he sat at the table, had wrapped around Sherlock, anchoring himself to Baker Street. He took in all the empathy and quiet strength Sherlock was offering, trying to stop the gaps in his fractured being with small fragments of emotional sustenance. After a while, John felt the sharp grief begin to subside, leaving him exhausted and heavy. His face felt uncomfortably full, his eyes sandy as he slowly sat up, hands sliding off Sherlock’s torso as space formed between them. John’s face was still downcast. He was too emotionally drained to be embarrassed by his display, simply sitting numbly with his hands in his lap.

“Bed?” Sherlock asked, and John opened his eyes, the dim light of early evening a minor surprise. He’d been sitting here for hours, then. Belatedly he nodded, though he made no attempt to move. Sherlock took him carefully in hand, guiding John into his bedroom with one hand on his shoulder and one around his back.

“No stairs.” Sherlock murmured, though John had not protested. He sat on the bed when Sherlock pressed on his shoulders, feeling his shoes loosen then disappear; his jacket was shucked off his shoulders. Without question he accepted the pills thrust into his hand, desperate for the dreamless escape of sleep. There was a long moment of nothing, and John went to lie down. A large hand stopped him and at its urging he stood.

“Trousers off, John.” Sherlock’s voice finally said quietly, and John obliged before finally lying down, the cool crisp sheets soothing against the heat of his face.

“Sleep, John. I’ll be here.” Sherlock’s deep voice was soothing, and John felt the pull of sleep dragging him into darkness.


End file.
